


The Impossible Might Take a Little While

by Cinnamongirl



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: (I love how that's a tag), M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sad Porn, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 17:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15029459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamongirl/pseuds/Cinnamongirl
Summary: Deacon jerks off and thinks about the Sole Survivor.





	The Impossible Might Take a Little While

He’s doing it again. He’d try to convince himself that it’s not happening, but even he doesn’t believe his own bullshit anymore.

Deacon is lying in bed in one of Whisper’s houses in Sanctuary. Someone who was more of a stickler for the truth would say that it’s technically a shack, but it’s sturdy and it has an actual lock on the door and Deacon has the whole place to himself so he’s not going to split hairs here. It’s basically just a bed (a real bed with a frame and a pillow and a mostly-clean mattress and everything) and a small table with a bowl and some purified water for washing up, which is next to a lantern (because of course) that’s illuminating about half of the room with weak light. He can’t see anything else but he knows that there’s a trunk to stash his clothes in and a bucket in the corner to piss in. 

Whisper said that he would be back any day now and Deacon is hanging around and waiting for him because he suspects that some of the traders who come through here are Institute informants, and also because he’s a lovesick idiot. He’s on his side, arms crossed, facing the door, and pretending that his legs are shifting because he’s trying to find a comfortable position and not because thinking about Whisper is making his dick hard.

It’s not like there’s anything in particular that prompted this tonight, except that maybe privacy and free time are a dangerous combination for him. He squirms some more as his mind wanders but he resolutely ignores it because he’s still pretending that this isn’t happening.

Deacon had dug up all the information he could find about the man in Vault 111 but he didn’t sound like anything special: unimpressive military career, genius wife who’d been some kind of rock star lawyer, cute kid. The man who had wandered into Diamond City and Bunker Hill and Goodneighbor was something else entirely. He was warm, open, everything that Deacon wasn’t, and he’d survived not only terrible personal tragedy but _the goddamn apocalypse_ with his sense of optimism intact. He was also a goddamn cocky bastard with the skills to back it up. Deacon was already smitten with him by the time he sauntered into HQ wearing the coat from the Courser he’d just killed. Deacon had been having fun staring at his ass in the Vault suit but the coat thing was a goddamn power move.

(And what does it say about him that he can admit in the privacy of his own mind that he’s completely rainbows-and-unicorns in love with this crazy Vault guy, but he’s still in denial about what he’s doing right now?)

He rubs his groin outside of his pants, just a little bit. His hips jerk forward in spite of himself. He _really_ shouldn’t be doing this but it feels too damn good and he’s desperate for it. At least he’s managed to not make any noise so far.

Thing is, he doesn’t even know if Whisper likes men. He almost definitely isn't sleeping with anyone and he’s never shown any signs of being interested in anybody. That could mean a lot of things and only a few of them are good. He never talks about his wife, which is a good sign, but he still wears his ring, which is probably a bad sign. 

(Christ, what would Barbara say about all of this? He can almost hear her voice. _Might as well go for it, honey, it’s not like I’m getting any less dead. The face you’ve got now looks kind of like a potato but I’m sure he’s into that._ Shit, he misses her.) 

He’s somehow ended up on his back with a hand down his pants and his legs spread apart so that he can squeeze himself through his underwear. He should stop. He needs to stop. There’s barely any room for his hand and it’s starting to cramp. He cringes while he unbuttons his jeans.

Whisper is everything that the Railroad needed and he’s definitely smart enough to realize that but he’s never made a big deal about it, which is the most important reason why Deacon isn’t going to tell him about any of this. He’s not afraid of being rejected; Whisper’s always been patient with Deacon’s bullshit and he’s never tried to change him. He’d probably just turn him down nicely and then continue on with as little awkwardness as possible. Honestly—if he’s even capable of that anymore—he’s afraid that Whisper would say yes, which would ultimately end up with Whisper distancing himself from the Railroad when Deacon inevitably ruins everything between them, and he can’t let that happen.

He feels too exposed on his back so he rolls over to his other side, facing away from the door. He’s still only squeezing himself but he can’t stop from rutting desperately into his hand.

Probably the worst part is that Deacon’s been doing this since before he and Whisper were formally introduced. By the time that Whisper told the Railroad that he wanted to be called Whisper, Deacon had already spent months stalking him and staring at his smile and his hands and the way he filled out a Vault suit. He’d go to wherever he was staying afterward and jerk off while speculating about what Mr. 111 would look like and sound like as he was getting fucked.

(Because he is actually jerking off now, almost moaning out loud in relief as he shoves his underwear down and closes a hand around his cock. Goddamn it.)

How does Whisper do this? You’d think that everyone with a dick masturbates in basically the same way but people will never fail to surprise you. Would he let Deacon watch him?

He assumed that the fantasizing would at least slow down once he started working with Whisper and got to know him as a partner and not just the object of his creepy fixation, but it turns out that Whisper is even better up close and it’s fricking _distracting_. Whisper didn’t even have the courtesy to decide that Deacon is “too much” after about two hours, like everybody else does. 

When was the last time Deacon kissed anybody, anyway? It had to have been at least three faces ago. Even if he wasn’t badly out of practice, his lips are so thin now that he’d probably be terrible at it. Whisper has very nice lips. Deacon thinks about how Whisper would probably be an excellent kisser and his hand moves faster.

There’s something about him that makes Deacon want to put his mouth in unhygenic places, like licking his asshole or sucking his toes. He isn’t even usually into feet.

(Deacon has, on more than one occasion, caught himself fantasizing about _holding hands_ with Whisper.)

Deacon pointedly does not try to calculate how long it’s been since he was with anyone because it’ll just bum him out. Whisper wouldn’t hold it against him, though. He’d be patient, showing Deacon exactly what he likes, and if Deacon’s good at anything it’s watching people and figuring them out.

He wants to lay Whisper down on his back and watch his face as he fucks him within an inch of his life. Or Whisper can top if he wants to; Deacon isn’t picky. They don’t even have to do butt stuff at all.

He’d disguise himself as whoever Whisper wants him to be and get down on his knees to blow him. Whisper wouldn’t even have to touch him.

Deacon realizes that he’s uncomfortably close to coming. He hasn’t even been at this for very long but he was pretty worked-up to begin with. He forces himself to pull his hands away and painfully button his jeans again, so that he can get up and look for a rag or something. He manages to find one next to the washbowl. He lies back down and stares at the wall again because he still can’t handle facing the door.

It’s too easy to pick up where he left off. In less than a minute, he’s gasping and stroking himself frantically.

Deacon imagines that Whisper is lying in the bed behind him, jerking him off with his own groin pressed against Deacon’s ass. In his mind, he can feel that Whisper’s cock is hard against him because Whisper is into this too and he doesn’t think that Deacon is a creep and a shitty friend and an all-around horrible person. He imagines Whisper kissing his neck while he does it and he comes hard into the rag, shuddering through it and forcing himself not to make any noise.

He wipes everything up, throws the rag across the room, and refastens his jeans.

He lies there, listening to his own heartbeat. He is _not_ crying. Maybe his face is sweaty, but he’s definitely not crying and fantasizing about Whisper spooning him. He focuses on the thought of pressure against his back, how it would feel to have Whisper leaning against him with an arm around his waist. It feels too intimate and he flinches away from the imagined contact. 

Deacon rolls onto his back. He wipes the- _sweat_ off his cheek and stares up into the darkness.

Maybe he’ll tell Whisper about Barbara when he gets back.


End file.
